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Leaves of Grass

  
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LEAVES OF GRASS.
 1. 
1 — Poem of Walt Whitman, an American.
 2. 
2 — Poem of Women.
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3 — Poem of Salutation.
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4 — Poem of The Daily Work of The Workmen and Workwomen of These States.
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5 — Broad-Axe Poem.
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6 — Poem of a Few Greatnesses.
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7 — Poem of The Body.
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8 — Poem of Many In One.
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9 — Poem of Wonder at The Resurrection of The Wheat.
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10 — Poem of You, Whoever You Are.
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11 — Sun-Down Poem.
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12 — Poem of The Road.
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13 — Poem of Procreation.
 14. 
14 — Poem of The Poet.
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15 — Clef Poem.
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16 — Poem of The Dead Young Men of Europe, The 72d and 73d Years of These States
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17 — Poem of The Heart of The Son of Manhattan Island.
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18 — Poem of The Last Explanation of Prudence.
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19 — Poem of The Singers, and of The Words of Poems.
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20 — Faith Poem.
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21 — Liberty Poem for Asia, Africa, Europe, America, Australia, Cuba, and The Archipelogoes of the Sea.
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22 — Poem of Apparitions in Boston, The 78th Year of These States.
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23 — Poem of Remembrances for A Girl or A Boy of These States.
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24 — Poem of Perfect Miracles.
 25. 
25 — Poem of The Child That Went Forth, and Always Goes Forth, Forever and Forever
 26. 
26 — Night Poem.
 27. 
27 — Poem of Faces.
 28. 
28 — Bunch Poem.
 29. 
29 — Lesson Poem.
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30 — Poem of The Propositions of Nakedness.
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31 — Poem of The Sayers of The Words of The Earth.
 32. 
32 — Burial Poem.
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LEAVES-DROPPINGS.
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Correspondence.
 1. 
LETTER TO WALT WHITMAN.
 2. 
LETTER TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
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Opinions. 1855-6.
 1. 
From the London Weekly Dispatch. (London, England.) LEAVES OF GRASS. By Walt Whitman. Horsell, Oxford Street.
 2. 
From the Brooklyn Daily Times. LEAVES OF GRASS. A volume of Poems, just published.
 3. 
From the Christian Spiritualist. LEAVES OF GRASS.
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From the American Phrenological Journal. AN ENGLISH AND AN AMERICAN POET.
 5. 
From the Critic. (London, England.) LEAVES OF GRASS. New York, 1855. London: Horsell.
 6. 
From the Examiner. (London, England.) LEAVES OF GRASS. Brooklyn, New York.
 7. 
From the London Leader. TRANSATLANTIC LATTER-DAY POETRY.
 7. 
From the Boston Intelligencer, May 8d, 1856 LEAVES OF GRASS. Brooklyn, New York, 1855.

  
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22 — Poem of Apparitions in Boston, The 78th Year of These States.

CLEAR the way there, Jonathan!      Way for the President's marshal! Way for      the government cannon!
Way for the federal foot and dragoons — and the      apparitions copiously tumbling.
I rose this morning early to get betimes in Boston      town,
Here's a good place at the corner, I must stand      and see the show.
I love to look on the stars and stripes, I hope the      fifes will play Yankee Doodle.
How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost      troops!
Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff      through Boston town.
A fog follows, antiques of the same come      limping,
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Some appear wooden-legged and some appear      bandaged and bloodless.
Why this is a show! It has called the dead out      of the earth!
The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to      see!
Uncountable phantoms gather by flank and rear      of it!
Cocked hats of mothy mould! crutches made of      mist!
Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men's      shoulders!
What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is      all this chattering of bare gums?
Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you      mistake your crutches for fire-locks, and      level them?
If you blind your eyes with tears you will not see      the President's marshal,
If you groan such groans you might balk the      government cannon.
For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those      tossed arms and let your white hair be,
Here gape your smart grand-sons — their wives      gaze at them from the windows,
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See how well-dressed — see how orderly they      conduct themselves.
Worse and worse! Can't you stand it? Are you      retreating?
Is this hour with the living too dead for you?
Retreat then! Pell-mell! Back to the hills, old      limpers!
I do not think you belong here, anyhow.
But there is one thing that belongs here — shall I      tell you what it is, gentlemen of Boston?
I will whisper it to the Mayor — he shall send a      committee to England,
They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go      with a cart to the royal vault,
Dig out King George's coffin — unwrap him quick      from the grave-clothes — box up his bones for      a journey,
Find a swift Yankee clipper — here is freight for      you, black-bellied clipper!
Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer      straight toward Boston bay.
Now call the President's marshal again, bring      out the government cannon,
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Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make      another procession, guard it with foot and      dragoons.
This centre-piece for them:
Look! all orderly citizens — look from the win-     dows, women!
The committee open the box, set up the regal      ribs, glue those that will not stay,
Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a      crown on top of the skull.
You have got your revenge, old buster! The      crown is come to its own, and more than its      own.
Stick your hands in your pockets Jonathan — you      are a made man from this day,
You are mighty cute, and here is one of your      bargains.
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